“You Didn’t Have To Love Me, Like You Did. But You Didn’t! But You Did — And I Thank You!”

I never used to wait it out before. Instead I would leap in, head first, thinking:

“He is — so very beautiful. So: Why not?”

And it would be odd and sad, at the end of each affair (or, what’s more tragic, somewhere in the first chapter of it), to find myself disappointed — in myself. ‘Cause I’m a smart girl, you see? I always have been. (I mean: I read books, for Christ’s sake. Right?!)

But you know what my problem is? I like humanity too much. That, plus the dumb-bitch-ness of ignoring my own intuition — and I’ve got a decade of disappointing affairs.And no, I’m never disappointed in them: those I’ve chosen to fall for, head first, regardless of my screaming intuition. Instead, I’m always disappointed — in myself.

“But he is so very beautiful,” I think. And what’s worse, I used to say it sometimes, to his face. With years, I’ve reined in that messy situation a bit. ‘Cause I’m a smart girl, you see? So, now, I tend to whisper it instead, while he’s asleep on my chest like a babe relieved by a glorious burp after making a meal of my breast. I caress his hair — full, wispy or spiky, in a crewcut — and I get my pheromones going; convince myself I’m in love and I say it, out loud:

“You are so beautiful.”

Hopefully, he’s fully asleep by that point. And if not, most of the time, he pretends to be. How else to handle an intense number like me but to fake a hearing problem? Or a language barrier, of some sorts? The poor guy has just signed up for some sex — not for his fucking soulmate.

“That’s just the problem with you,” my ex has recently testified. “You make us believe we deserve you. But we don’t. We’ve got not business — fucking a girl like you.”

“Ah, I remember,” I thought to myself. “He always was — so very beautiful!”

I thought it, but made sure not to say it this time.

And it’s better with us now, anyway: Our friendship surfs upon our mutual goodness that’s no longer tested by sex. Still: So beautiful, I think; and I try to remember why he’s made me feel so disappointed — in myself — just a few years ago.

Another one got drunk at a party the other night, and instead giving a toast, like the man of the hour he’d insisted on being once he took over the barbecue grill, he raised his beer in my direction and he slurred:

“That woman!” He shook his head with spiky hair in a crewcut; then to our deadly silence, he wrapped it up: “THAT WOMAN.”

Later on, he wanted to walk me to my car.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. No car walking,” I insisted and I patted the back of his head I’ve memorized on my chest, while he was pretending to be asleep, one night.

‘Cause I’m a smart girl, you see, and it’s only taken me six years and half a dozen of disappointed affairs in Los Angeles to figure out that “car walking” often stands for “foreplay”. And I just don’t foreplay with my exes. Sure, we can surf upon the goodness of our friendship soon enough; but sex with the exes — well, that’s just a totally dumb-bitch move.

But the familiarity of the touch was enough to get my pheromones going, and instead of a goodbye I said: “Thank you, beautiful.” And I left.

Lord knows, before I’ve walked out on every one of them — these men I’ve chosen to fall for, head first — I ask them for the final verdict:

“Now: Are you sure?” I say. “‘Cause I’m a smart girl, you see? Once I leave — I don’t come back.”

But the poor guys are so exhausted by that point, they don’t know what hit ‘em. I mean: They’ve just signed up for some sex, not for a fucking soulmate! And in that moment, they think they just want some silence. Or some solitude, for Christ’s sake! They think they want that empty linoleum floor without one intense number strutting toward them, for more matter-altering sex.

But in the end, they always lose the girl that has loved them in the best of ways: Fed ‘em, fucked ‘em, rubbed their heads, stroked their egos. In conclusion: Built ‘em up.

And surely, they move on, after me. They’re fine: They find other girls, better suitable, less intense. But by the time I go, I’ve raised their expectation so much — I’ve ruined them, for good. And they know it.

“You’ve gotta be careful,” one of them told me while still in the midst of our affair, but most likely, already looking for his way out. Sad: The poor guy has just signed up for some sex. Instead, he ended up waking up next to his soulmate: The first girl to never forsaken him, to fulfill his needs better than his mother and to raise his expectation, forever.

“You’re too trusting, you see.”

“Ah. So beautiful!” I said at the time, to his beautiful face; and I smirked in a way that made him change the subject and move in for more matter-altering sex.

And he was. He was very beautiful. And so were the others. So beautiful I don’t regret falling for any of them, head first.